Chapter Two
I climb the last step of the front porch slower than I need to, like if I draw this out, I can control what comes next.
I left this ranch after I graduated high school. That was almost eight years ago. Since then, I’ve been back exactly three times. The first two, I stayed drunk pretty much the entire visit. The final time was last year for Caison’s surprise engagement to Maitland Storm.
Caison and I grew up together. His father and mine were great friends.
We spent most summers together. His father would bring him from their farm in Jackson Hole to a cabin they owned in the Teton mountains, not far from Wildhaven, after school let out each year, and I’d tag along.
We’d hike and fish and spend quality time together.
Those weeks are among my fondest childhood memories.
Caison went on to college in Texas and stayed south until his father passed.
That’s when he came home and took the general manager position here at my family’s ranch, Ironhorse.
I didn’t have a plan when I left. I just knew I had to get this place and the weight of Holland Ludlow’s expectations in my rearview mirror.
I spent the first year on the rodeo circuit, moving from town to town, roping steers and living off the measly winnings, drowning myself in cheap booze and cheap women.
Eventually, I landed in Las Vegas—a place where men like me go to get lost. I worked every job the place had to offer—from male dancer to blackjack dealer to nightclub bouncer.
None of it slowed the flow of cheap booze and women.
In fact, it intensified as I began to turn to stronger ways to dull the self-loathing.
Hell, six of the last eight years are nothing but hazy memories of parties, fights, evictions, and the inside of a jail cell.
All courtesy of my dabbling in Sin City’s illicit cocktail of pleasure—drugs, alcohol, and sex.
The house looms behind the big white columns—three stories of white-trimmed colonial pride, black shutters framing tall picture windows, the porch stretching wide enough to hold half the town during a barbecue.
It’s the house I grew up in. The house I ran from.
The house I swore I’d never come back to.
But here I am.
Ruby’s hand is swallowed up in mine, her fingers tiny but strong, gripping me like a vise.
She’s quiet—too quiet for a four-year-old who usually chatters on about horses and clouds shaped like bunnies and how many chickens she thinks live on a ranch.
Her long blonde hair falls down her back in soft waves, the brown bow clipped neatly at the side of her head.
I’ve gotten good at bows these last few months.
She looks up at the house, then up at me.
Her bottom lip trembles, then disappears between her teeth as she chews on it hard.
“What if they don’t like me?” she whispers.
The question hits me square in the chest.
I stop walking. Just stop, right there on the porch, the old wood groaning beneath our boots. Her brown cowgirl boots—brand-new, because I wanted her to feel like she was becoming part of something—are planted together like she’s bracing for impact.
I crouch down in front of her so we’re eye level.
“Hey,” I say softly, keeping my voice steady even though my insides are shaking apart. “Look at me, Rubes.”
She does. Her eyes are big and blue and full of questions.
“They’re gonna love you,” I say. “I promise.”
Her eyebrows pull together. “How do you know?”
Because you’re mine.
Because anyone with a heartbeat will see her and fall instantly, just like I did the first time I laid eyes on her.
“Because you’re pretty hard not to love,” I say instead, tapping her nose tenderly.
She squeezes my hand harder, like she’s counting on me to protect her from whatever lies behind those doors. Then she nods. It’s small, but the brave determination behind it nearly brings me to my knees.
She looks down at her outfit, smoothing her white sweater with the bowed sleeves, then tugs at the hem of her black-and-brown plaid skirt.
“Do I look like a cowgirl?” she asks.
“Yep,” I tell her, smiling. “The prettiest cowgirl I’ve ever seen.”
She nods, still nervous, still chewing her lip.
I stand and scoop her up before she can second-guess herself into bolting back down the porch steps. She makes a small surprised sound before her arms wrap around my neck instinctively, her cheek pressing into the side of my jaw.
“You’re gonna love it here,” I murmur into her hair. “Horses. Big yard with a tire swing in the back. Your grandmother’s homemade cookies.”
“Grandmother?” she asks.
I smile. “Yeah. She’s the best. Wait and see.”
I hug her tight—longer than necessary, tighter than I mean to—because I need it as much as she does. Then I set her back on her feet, straighten the bow in her hair, and take a deep breath.
I lift my hand.
Knock once.
Twice.
The sound echoes across the porch, through years of memories I thought I’d buried, but not deep enough.
I hear the footsteps before the door swings open.
My mother fills the doorway as she always has—small but mighty.
Priscilla Ludlow. Her silver-blonde hair is pulled back in a loose twist, wisps escaping around her face.
She’s wearing a cream sweater and jeans, a light dusting of flour on her thighs, as if we caught her halfway through baking something and she absent-mindedly wiped her hands there.
Her eyes land on me first, and she’s momentarily stunned.
“Waylon!” she cries, her face lighting up like the sun breaking through storm clouds. The smile that stretches across her face is pure, unfiltered joy.
“Hi, Momma,” I say.
She steps forward immediately, arms already lifting to wrap around me. “What on earth are you doing, knocking on this door? This is your home, you know. You don’t have to—” she starts, but she stops mid-sentence.
Her gaze drops.
Tiny arms wrap around my left leg.
Ruby peeks out from behind me, half hidden, her fingers clutching the denim of my pants like it’s a lifeline.
Momma tilts her head, confusion flickering across her face before it’s replaced with curiosity.
“Well,” she says gently, crouching just a bit so she’s not towering over her, “who do we have here?”
Ruby looks up at me like she’s waiting for permission.
I tug her forward so she’s standing in front of me, my hands coming down to rest on her shoulders. And I’m unsure which one of us is shaking.
“Momma,” I say, my voice rough, “this is Ruby.”
My throat tightens as I swallow.
“Your granddaughter.”
The word hangs heavy between us.
She blinks a few times, letting my words sink in, before her hand flies to her mouth. Her eyes snap back to mine, wide and shining as tears flood them instantly.
“My what?” she gasps.
“She’s mine,” I say, and the words crack. I have to stop, breathe, pull myself back together before I can finish. “And we—” I shake my head, forcing the truth out. “We need a place to stay.”
She blinks rapidly, tears spilling over now, running down her cheeks.
“Here?” she asks softly, like she’s afraid she misunderstood what I was asking.
I nod once. “Can I come home, Momma?”
She doesn’t hesitate.
A sound breaks from her chest—half sob, half laugh—and she steps forward, wrapping her arms around me so tightly that I feel it clear down to my bones. Ruby gets squished between us, startled at first, then giggling as she’s pulled into the embrace.
“Oh, my baby,” Momma cries. “Oh, Waylon.”
She pulls back, still holding on to me, then laughs through her tears and drops down onto one knee in front of Ruby.
“Well, hello, Ruby,” she says, her voice warm and trembling. “I guess I’m your grandmother. My name is Priscilla, but you can call me Nana.”
Ruby looks at her—really looks at her—then glances up at me.
“Nana?” she repeats.
Momma nods, eyes shining. “If you’d like.”
Ruby considers this, then smiles, small and shy.
“Okay,” she says. “Nana.”
Momma presses a hand to her heart like it might burst right out of her chest.
“Oh,” she whispers. “Oh my goodness. How old are you, sweetheart?”
Ruby holds up three fingers.
“Wow, three years old?” Momma whispers, and her eyes meet mine. I can see the barrage of questions swirling behind her gaze. Why am I just finding out about her? Where have you been living? Where is her mother?
“Four,” I correct, glancing down at my girl. “Remember, we had a cake for your birthday last week?”
“Oh yeah. I’m this many now,” she says, holding up another finger.
“Wow. So big,” Momma praises.
A throat clears behind her.
“Priscilla?”
I look up.
My father stands just inside the doorway—tall, broad-shouldered, his gray hair combed back neatly, like it always is. His expression is unreadable at first, but then his eyes drop to Ruby.
Something shifts, and my spine straightens as I tighten my hold on Ruby.
“Waylon,” he says slowly.
“Pop,” I reply.
He steps forward, stopping just short of us. His keen eyes take in the scene before landing on Ruby. “Who’s this?”
I brace myself.
“This,” I say, resting my hand on Ruby’s shoulder, “is Ruby. My daughter.”
His eyebrows lift slightly. Just slightly.
“Your daughter?” he repeats.
I nod.
His eyes look beyond me and out to where I parked the truck, which I packed with all our belongings and drove overnight from Vegas.
“And her mother?” he asks.
“Gone,” I say, and the tone of my voice must halt any further questions he wants to ask because he glances back down at Ruby, who is looking up at him expectantly.
“Well,” he says, offering Ruby his hand, “I’m Holland Ludlow. I suppose that makes me—”
“Papa?” Momma offers, tentative.
He smiles. A real one.
“Yes,” he says. “That sounds about right.”
“Nice to meet you, Papa,” Ruby says politely before lunging forward and wrapping her arms around his legs.
I watch the man of steel that is my father melt in front of me.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Ruby.”
Momma taps Dad in the chest, and he steps back.
“Come in. I bet you’re thirsty. I just made a fresh pitcher of lemonade.”
Ruby looks up at me for permission, and I wink. Then she takes my mother’s offered hand and follows her past my father and inside.
And just like that, the house I vowed I’d never return to opens its doors wide to the both of us.
My eyes meet Pop’s as we follow them inside—full of disapproval or maybe disappointment.
Whatever it is, I’m gonna have to swallow my pride and take whatever tongue-lashing he has coming for me because Ruby deserves better than a run-down studio apartment in a sketchy part of Vegas with a father who’s out hustling all night and sleeping all day.
This is a chance for a new start. And I’ll eat whatever shit he dishes out in order to give it to her.